“Beautifully. Watch me!”
And the boy did. Far out over the forest in the gathering twilight the aeroplane flew like a disc. Then the aviator turned to the south. At this long swoop the sickening depression came again into Morey’s breast, but only for a moment.
“It’s this or nothing, for me,” he said to himself and with a last effort he put aside his fear.
“Look ahead,” exclaimed Lieutenant Purcell suddenly. “See something white?”
“Looks like a building.”
“Top of the courthouse in your village.”
Five miles toward the village the aeroplane flew and then Lieutenant Purcell turned once more. Just at dusk the airship sank gently to the earth in front of the camp. Amos grabbed Morey as a mother might clasp a lost child. He was blubbering and breathless. The black boy had chased the aeroplane and was almost exhausted.
“Marse Morey,” he panted, “ef yo’ all ebber go in that hurricane agin I’s gwine right home and tell yo’ ma.”
Morey had another opportunity the next day. Appleton was in disgrace. Morey was given his place and in the evening, after another short flight with Lieutenant Purcell, he was allowed to make a trial flight alone near the ground. In the week that followed Morey made daily flights—at last over the adjacent forest. His skill and confidence grew with every ascent. Lieutenant Purcell was not disappointed in his pupil. He had already assured the boy of a promotion to a sergeancy. Morey’s proud satisfaction had only one cloud on it—still no word came from Washington concerning his business negotiations.